


The Stars are Brightly Shining

by wingchestr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is emotionally constipated, Deviates From Canon, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 08, sort of a 'what if' senario, there will be a quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingchestr/pseuds/wingchestr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He imagines, sometimes, that Cas actually does come back. He imagines the flutter of wings and the “Hello, Dean,” that he would never admit to missing. Sometimes he punches Cas. Sometimes he throws his arms around him, buries his face in his shoulder, preventing him from leaving ever again. Sometimes, Cas hugs him back."</p><p>It's not exactly the Christmas present Dean was expecting. But then, with Cas, it never is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cry_for_Judas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cry_for_Judas/gifts).



> This is a belated Christmas present for my dearest darling wonderful Sydney! You inspire me so much, I hope this pleases you.
> 
> I originally planned for this to be a quick oneshot but it grew into something much larger, and now I have a whole multiple-chapter story planned out. The summary makes it sound much fluffier than it actually is. I will probably change it after I've posted a few more chapters. I do promise that there will be more fluffiness (and angsting) to come!
> 
> The story that I wanted to write didn't fit well into season 9, so I wound it back to season 8. For reference, the first chapter takes place after 8x16.

“Okay, Kev,” Dean says into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just call us as soon as you’ve got the second trial figured out.”

“I’ll do my best,” Kevin says. He sounds exhausted. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean ends the call and tosses the phone onto the table. He feels bad for the kid, but it would be great if he could work just a little faster. Anything else about the trials would be a huge help at this point, really.

“Reading the word of God isn’t exactly an exact science, Dean,” Sam says, as if he’s reading Dean’s thoughts and disapproves of what he sees. “I mean, he’s translating an unknown language entirely on his own. Give him a break, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles, moving away.

“Plus, it’s Christmas Eve,” Sam adds. “Go easy on him.”

Dean huffs. “Demons don’t care about Christmas.”

“Kevin does.”

“Since when did you?”

Sam sighs. “This isn’t about me, Dean.”

Dean grumbles under his breath and stalks out of the room. Sam’s right, he should be easier on Kevin. He knows the kid is working as hard as he can, and what he’s doing isn’t easy. But it’s Sam that’s hanging in the balance this time, and Dean can’t bring himself to let up the pressure.

He feels restless in the bunker, cooped up, but he doesn’t want to go out either. It’s Christmas, and everywhere the preparations and decorations are at a fever pitch. Shoppers rush to get their last-minute gift-buying done, Christmas tunes play in every conceivable area, and everywhere the televisions and radios blare at him that Christmas is a _happy family time_ and perfect for spending with loved ones, doing ridiculous Christmas things like playing board games or sharing Christmas crackers, for fuck’s sake.

It would all be fine, actually, it would be more than fine – they have a permanent home this year, for the first time since Dean can remember – but every Christmas commercial with a happy family eating dinner together reminds him that most of his family is dead or missing.

A hunt would be nice to get his mind off Christmas, but any hunt is inevitably going to wind up being linked to the trials or the tablets in some way. With Sam weak from the first trial, and with no real idea of what they’re up against, Dean would much prefer not to jump back into that pool if they don’t have to. Especially with Cas still missing in action.

Worry about Cas has been a tight knot in Dean’s stomach for weeks. He’s gotten used to it, but it flares up sometimes into a full-blown dread, staggering and haunting him. The way Cas left, the way he killed Samandriel after going to such lengths to save him, had seemed very off. Something is wrong, and Cas hasn’t shown up at all since then, hasn’t been answering Dean’s prayers, although Dean is praying increasingly frequently now. He prays for Sam, prays for help with the trials, prays asking if Cas is okay. He never prays for himself.

He wants to, sometimes, wants to tell Cas to fly his stupid feathery ass back here for no reason other than Dean needs him.

Because Dean _does_ need him. It hurts to have him gone this long. It hurts that he left again with no explanation. And he’s angry, really angry, that Cas thinks it’s okay to vanish like under such shady circumstances and make no contact of any kind.

He imagines, sometimes, that Cas actually does come back. He imagines the flutter of wings and the “Hello, Dean,” that he would never admit to missing. Sometimes he punches Cas. Sometimes he throws his arms around him, buries his face in his shoulder, preventing him from leaving ever again. Sometimes, Cas hugs him back.

This was what happened in Purgatory. There, Cas was staying away to try and keep Dean safe. Dean wonders if the same thing is happening again on Earth.

Or maybe Cas has finally decided that he doesn’t care.

 _Or maybe_ , says the persistent traitorous little voice in Dean’s head, _maybe he’s not coming back because he can’t. Maybe he’s not answering because he can’t hear you. Maybe he’s dead and you’ll never know, you’ll never know—_

_Shut up._

Dean grabs his gun and pounds down the stairs to the shooting range. The targets are still and they don’t try to kill him, and with each shot he relaxes a little, driving the tension out of his body. _Shut up. Cas is alive. Cas is okay._ He changes where he’s aiming, the echoes ringing off the walls, loud even through the noise-reducing earmuffs. _Cas is alive._ He stops and lowers the gun, breaths out. On the target, the bullets are in tight clusters in the head and the heart. _Cas is okay._

When he comes back upstairs later, Sam is sleeping, grabbing a nap before dinner. Dean is glad. Anything that will help him recover from the trial, get his strength back, is entirely welcome.

He spends the time continuing the search through the Men of Letters’ library in hopes of finding something that might help Sam get through the trials. He isn’t likely to find anything, but it’s worth a shot.

Sam appears again four volumes and the beginning of a pounding headache later.

“Hey,” he says, covering a giant yawn with his hand.

“Look who decided to rejoin the living,” Dean says, grinning, shutting the book in front of him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Just some research.” Dean stands and stretches. “Hey, do you want to go out for dinner?”

Sam laughs. “Where? It’s Christmas Eve, remember? Everywhere’s gonna be closed.”

“Something’ll be open,” Dean says. “Come on, I just want to get out of here.”

“Okay,” Sam says, pushing his hair out of his face, and heads back to his room to get his jacket.

Sam was right – 7:30 on Christmas Eve, and it’s almost like a ghost town. The candy canes and creepy Santa dolls stare from the windows of stores that are either closed or closing, and most restaurants are shut as well. There is a Biggerson’s that’s still open, but both Winchesters avoid that chain like the plague.

In the end, they find a burger joint that stays open late. Dean orders a burger and Sam orders a salad, and they roll their eyes at each other’s choices.

“Now this is heaven,” Dean says through a mouthful of burger.

Sam makes a face. “Gross, Dean.”

Dean tosses a French fry at him before noticing the waitress glaring at him. He ducks his head from her withering gaze, and Sam laughs at him, full and deep. Dean’s throat is suddenly tight. He hasn’t heard Sam laugh like that in a while. It makes him think of a time when they weren’t quite as old, weren’t quite as scarred, when the fate of the world didn’t rest on their shoulders.

He’s glad to be sitting in this dingy restaurant sharing a meal with his brother. He’s glad that Sam can still laugh like that.

 _As Christmases go,_ Dean thinks, _this one isn’t so bad._

On the way back home, they stop at a gas station, because convenience store presents are pretty much a tradition at this point. Dean grabs Sam’s favorite kind of candy bar and a cheap-looking leather bracelet from a rack near the register, and quickly pays while Sam is on the other side of the store. He escapes outside to the Impala to shiver while the heater warms up so that Sam can buy whatever crappy present he chose.

Sam comes out a few minutes later and gets in the car, folding all his giant limbs into place, and they drive home. A Christmas carol starts playing on the radio, but Dean doesn’t change the station, even though it’s the sort of religious crap he never listens to. Instead, he hums along – in his head, so Sam won’t make fun of him.

 _“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices_  
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn  
Fall on your knees, O hear the angels’ voices!”

Dean laughs at that. “If they could really hear the angels’ voices, I bet they wouldn’t be singing about them.”

Sam smiles. “Maybe back then the angels weren’t such dicks.”

Dean glances at him, surprised to hear Sam use his term for the winged douchebags. A smile grows on his face as he looks back at the road.

They pull up in front of the bunker and get out of the car. Sam heads for the front door, but Dean stops for a minute, looking up at the sky. The clouds from earlier have disappeared, and the sky is clear now. There’s a crescent moon surrounded by countless stars, brilliant points of light, and Dean breathes out into the cold, crisp air. The stars actually do twinkle as they shine down on him.

“Dean!” Sam yells suddenly, and Dean’s heart seizes in his chest, because Sam only uses that voice when something’s really wrong. He drops the plastic bag from the gas station, sprinting towards the front steps of the bunker, where he can see Sam’s dark form crouching down. _Sam,_ is his first thought, _Sam’s hurt_ , but then Sam gets up and runs down the steps to pull open the door to the bunker. Light spills out as Dean reaches the stop of the steps, and he stops short, pulling up so suddenly he can feel the excess momentum course through him like a wave.

Castiel is lying at an angle on the front steps, face up and unmoving, unconscious.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, and he’s moving again, darting to Cas’s side, touching his arm, his shoulder. “Cas, can you hear me?”

Cas doesn’t react, and Dean touches his throat, feeling for the pulse under his jaw.

“Shit, Sam, he’s really cold,” Dean says frantically. Cas’s skin is freezing. How long has he been out here? “C’mon, Cas, wake up,” Dean urges, slapping lightly at Cas’s face. He doesn’t look hurt, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Is he breathing?” Sam asks, hovering anxiously.

“I can’t tell,” Dean says, voice tight. _No no no no no,_ his brain is chanting, making it hard to think. He’s ready to do CPR when he feels the puff of breath against his hand, the weak pulse in Cas’s neck.

_Thank God._

“He’s alive,” Dean sighs, sagging with the relief, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. _That’s one fucked-up Christmas present,_ he thinks, slightly hysterical, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He clamps it down and looks up at Sam.

“What the hell happened to him?” Sam says softly, wondering.

 _Who the hell knows._ “Help me get him inside,” Dean says.

Together they maneuver Cas’s limp form into the bunker. Cas is heavy and unwieldy and completely unhelpful, but somehow they manage to get him down the stairs and into a guest bedroom without any major mishaps.

“Okay,” Dean says, once they lay Cas down on the bed. Now that he has a chance to take a proper look at Cas, he can see that he’s unnaturally pale, the color drained from his face. His hair is stuck to his forehead where his skin is tacky from dried sweat. Something bad happened, something that made him run. Made him crash here.

In all of Dean’s thoughts about Cas returning, this was one situation he had never considered.

Dean takes a breath. The initial panic has given way to fear and desperation and a terrible sense of helplessness. Cas needs him right now, but Dean has no idea what to do for an unconscious angel.

“What do we do now?” Sam asks, reading Dean’s thoughts again.

Dean shakes his head. “Let him rest, I guess? Whatever happened must have fried him pretty bad. I’m sure he just needs to recharge and he’ll be okay.”

_He’ll be okay._

_Please, let him be okay._

It’s a prayer, a desperate plea to a god that he knows isn’t listening, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that praying is the same as begging; he is begging for Cas.

“Yeah, of course he’ll be okay,” Sam says, and Dean hears the false confidence in his voice. His stomach clenches. Sam is lying for his sake, trying to make him feel better. He doesn’t really believe that Cas will pull through.

Cas is just going to have to prove him wrong, then, because Dean isn’t going to let him die on them, not like this. And Cas doesn’t want to die – whatever decision he made before he passed out, he chose to come back. He wants help, wants a safe place.

In his last lucid moment, he wanted Dean.

Dean shakes his head and pushes that thought deep, deep down, where it will never see the light of day.

“One of us should probably stay with him,” Sam points out. “In case he wakes up.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He half-smiles. “I’ll watch over him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel sleeps for two days straight.

Dean refuses to leave Cas’s bedside, sitting up with him through the first night, watching for any signs of revival and then just watching him, studying the darkness of his hair against the pillow, the curve of his eyelids, the shape of his mouth, the rise and fall of his chest under the trenchcoat, until his own eyelids droop and his head falls heavy against his hand.

He dreams that he’s back in purgatory and he’s running, pounding through the hot reeking forest. He has to find Cas. Cas is in danger. There are growls and shrieks from behind as the monsters chasing him gain ground, and he glances back as he runs but he can’t make out his pursuers, just their shadowy forms. He has no weapons, nothing to defend himself with. Suddenly from ahead he hears Cas’s voice, screaming for him, screaming his name, agonized animal sounds of pain. Dean’s insides twist and he pushes himself to go faster, running from the monsters behind him to the monsters in front of him, running to Cas. He bursts between two trees into a clearing, and he knows Cas is there, but before he can catch sight of him a leviathan shoots down in front of him, black ooze congealing into a body, and Dean starts awake, gasping, throwing his arms up to defend himself, Cas’s name on his lips.

The bedside light is still on, and Cas is lying on the bed, unmoved, unchanged. Dean stares at him, his breaths loud in the silent room.

_It was just a dream._

The thought doesn’t make him feel better. He’s still shaking as he drags a hand over his face, staring up at the ceiling.

It’s not the first time he’s had that particular dream. No matter what, he never gets to Cas in time.

Dean stands, stretches, trying to work out the kinks in his complaining muscles, stiff from sleeping in the chair. He can’t stay still anymore; nervous and restless, he paces the room.

Some days it seems like he’s come a long way since purgatory; other times, it’s right on the other side of his eyelids. Throwing Cas into the equation messes him up even more. He knows that Cas has been lying to him since he got back; there’s no way in hell he doesn’t remember getting out of that place. But then Cas hunted with them, and was so proud to be part of the team, and Dean thought that maybe it didn’t matter, the past was the past, and Cas might stay.

He should have known better. Cas never stays if he is able to go.

Now Cas is still and silent on the bed. Dean wonders if once again he was too late.

Christmas day is quiet and tense. Dean sits by Cas’s bedside until Sam finally insists around midday that he has to go and get something to eat, take a shower, sleep for a couple of hours _in a proper bed, yes I’m serious Dean_.

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” Dean grits out. _I don’t want to leave him._

“Go take care of yourself. I’ll look after Cas,” Sam tells him, firm and sincere, and Dean allows himself to be shepherded out of the room.

He does as Sam says and eats, chewing mechanically, swallowing without tasting the food. He showers, too, and changes his clothes, but doesn’t sleep. He knows he’s tired, but he doesn’t want to, can’t face the thought of lying down and drifting off.

He thinks about Cas instead, and he’s worried, and angry, and scared, and worried.

He returns to Cas’s bedroom, lets Sam go back to whatever he was doing. Later on, he takes books in there, old Men of Letters tomes, and pours through them in search of something that might help, anything that might let him understand what’s going on. He finds nothing about comatose angels.

He’s furious at him, the stupid son of a bitch who left and abandoned him and returns now unconscious and not even able to explain himself. He’s furious that he doesn’t know how bad it is, doesn’t know how much danger Cas is in, can’t even talk to him. He’s angry, and if he’s honest with himself (which is a very rare thing) he’s hurt, really hurt by Cas’s disappearance. They’re supposed to be friends, after all. Friends don’t cut off all communication. Friends tell each other things.

Friends turn to each other for help.

Dean sighs, slides to his knees and leans forward until his forehead rests against the edge of the mattress.

_Tell me how to help you._

Cas doesn’t answer.

That night, Dean brings in a pillow and a blanket and sleeps on the floor. His dreams are dark and troubled, but he doesn’t remember them when he wakes up.

“He’s been out for a long time,” Dean says to Sam the next day, not caring how worried he seems.

“It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened,” Sam points out, which is true. But before, they mostly knew what the cause was, why Cas had to pass out and recharge. The idea of taking him to the hospital is hovering in the front of Dean’s mind, and he would suggest it if he didn’t know what a terrible idea it would be to take an angel to human doctors.

He wishes there was someone they could call and ask, but there is no one he knows who is alive and knows more about angels than they do.

Dean spends most of the day in Cas’s room. There is nothing he can do to help, but he needs to be there with him all the same. By the early evening, he’s exhausted and strained, but still refuses to leave Cas. It’s only with great difficultly that Sam persuades him to go grab a few of hours of sleep in his own bed.

“You’re not helping him by killing yourself,” Sam points out, and once again Dean concedes to the point, making himself leave to go and lie down on his own bed. The memory foam mattress has never seemed this uncomfortable. He leaves his clothes on, lying on top of the covers, tense as he falls asleep.

He wakes up a couple of hours later to furious knocking on his door, and his hand automatically curls around the knife under his pillow. Old habits die hard.

“Dean,” Sam shouts through the door. “He’s awake.”

Dean blinks as the words find meaning, then bolts up out of the bed, wrenching the door open and almost colliding with Sam.

“Whoa, Dean, calm,” Sam says, catching him by the arm.

Dean pulls his arm free, glaring at Sam, but he takes a deep breath anyway, forcing himself to walk. Every step down the hallway to Cas’s room, he wants to break into a run, somehow terrified that Cas will vanish before he gets there.

But Cas doesn’t vanish, and Dean is involuntarily pulled to a halt in the doorway, his breath catching as he sees him. Cas is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands. Impossible happiness rushes through Dean.

“Cas,” he breathes, the name torn from him, and Cas looks up, his eyes meeting Dean’s.

“Dean,” he says, greeting and surprise and something like relief, and Dean is so relieved to hear his deep voice that he doesn’t care, he marches across the room and sits heavily on the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around Cas. He has to hold him, feel the shape of him, solid and heavy in his arms.

Cas doesn’t return the hug, but he leans into Dean, letting himself be held, letting Dean reassure himself with his presence. “Dean,” he says again, his voice soft in Dean’s ear.

Dean closes his eyes, biting back the stinging threat of tears. Warmth pulses at his center. Cas is okay. He breathes out, sighing into Cas’s shoulder.

_Don’t hold him for too long._

“I was so fucking worried about you, man,” he mutters, and releases Cas, moving back on the bed, putting an arm’s length between them. He can’t make himself let go completely, though, and slides his hand down from Cas’s shoulder to his arm, holding on lightly.

Cas looks down. “I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds truly regretful.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks. “What happened?”

Cas sighs and looks up, somewhere above Dean’s head. “I fell.”

“You fell?” Sam asks, coming forward from the doorway at this piece of news. “As in…fell from heaven?”

“I cut out my Grace,” Cas says.

They stare at him in silence. Dean slowly drops his hand from Cas’s arm.

“Did…did it hurt?” Dean asks finally, and kicks himself internally. _Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Worst timing ever, Dean Winchester._

Cas looks at him, and Dean withers under his stony glare. “Yes,” Cas says, finally, and leaves it at that.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“I would prefer not to talk about it right now.” Cas’s voice is raw.

“Oh. Okay. Do you…do you want us to leave?”

“I would like to be alone, thank you.” Cas looks at each of them and then drops his gaze. Dean stares at him, not moving from his place on the bed.

“Is there anything we can do, Cas?” he asks softly. _I’m here for you._

Cas’s eyes flick back up for a second, and he looks so crushed that Dean feels it like a punch in the gut.

“No, Dean,” he says, quiet but forceful.

“Okay. We’ll give you your space,” Sam says. He grabs Dean’s arm and yanks him to his feet. “Come on, Dean.”

That night is much the same as the previous one, but Dean is even more restless, his skin prickling with nervous energy. Cas stays in his room with the door shut. Dean doesn’t blame him for wanting to be alone; he can’t even imagine what Cas is going through right now. He wants to comfort him, but he can’t think of anything that might make it remotely better.

All the same, he wishes he could be with him.

In the middle of the night, Dean gets up and leaves a change of clothes, his old clothes, outside of Cas’s door. He’s not sure exactly what a loss of grace entails, but he figures that Cas will want something to change into if he can’t zap his clothes clean anymore.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

***

Cas appears again at breakfast the next morning, hovering in the doorway.

“Good morning,” he says, uncertain. He’s wearing Dean’s clothes under his trenchcoat, and Dean can’t help the rush of pride he feels at the sight.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean calls out, grinning. Sam glares at him. Dean can practically feel the ‘ _it’s not funny, Dean’_ beams shooting out of his eyes. Dean agrees, it’s not funny in the slightest, but making jokes about serious situations is what he’s always done.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says. “Do you want any breakfast?”

“Some coffee, if you have any.” Cas crosses the room towards them but doesn’t sit, holding on to the back of a chair.

“Sure,” Sam says, and goes to get another cup of coffee for Cas.

Dean watches Cas as he frowns, lost in thought.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “You there?”

Cas focuses on him. “Yes,” he says, and sits down at the table. “I was just thinking that I will need to eat, now. The fact that I have to, to survive, it’s…” he presses his lips together. “Strange.”

Dean nods, unsure what to say. Strange. It must be very strange. He wonders what it feels like to be missing your grace. He doesn’t ask.

“Thank you for taking me in,” Cas continues. “I needed a safe place to go.”

“Yeah, of course, Cas,” Dean says, sincere. “Anytime.”

Cas gives him a brief smile, and it makes something light up in Dean’s chest, expanding and contracting at the same time.

Sam comes back and hands Cas a mug. Cas gratefully accepts it, warming his hands on the hot ceramic.

“So…you’re not an angel?” Sam asks, bluntly broaching the topic as he sits back down.

Cas sets the mug down on the table, seemingly resigned to discuss it now. “No. I am not.”

“Um…” Sam fiddles with the handle of his own coffee mug. “So if you had to… you know, cut out your grace…wouldn’t that leave a mark?”

“It’s not physical cutting of the flesh,” Cas explains. “There is no wound to my ve— to my body.”

“But why are you still here?” Sam asks, leaning forward. “In that body? I mean, when Anna did that, she was reborn as a baby, right?”

“I’m not an expert on the mechanics of it,” Cas sighs. “But when Anna fell from grace, she was not confined to a vessel. I was able to remain in this form.”

“What about your vessel?” Sam asks. “How does that work? Is he still in there with you?”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “Jimmy died years ago,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Sam manages, surprised. “I’m…sorry?”

“Enough with the 20 Questions, Sam,” Dean breaks in gruffly. “He’s here, okay?” He eyes Cas. “What I want to know is, why?”

Cas pauses, looking down at his coffee mug, deciding what he’s going to say. “There is an angel, Naomi…” His fingers clench into a fist. “She was the one who pulled me out of purgatory. She’s been controlling me since I got back.”

“The whole time?” Dean says, as Sam asks, “Controlling you how?”

“She broke into my mind,” Cas says, clearly trying hard to keep his voice level. “She would make me report to her, and she’d tell me what to do, and I never remembered her. She’s controlling all of us, or most of us, at least. The only way to escape her was if I was not an angel.”

“So you just— Wow.” Dean blows out a breath. “How did you do it?”

“She was— training me, and I managed to break free for a minute. It took a monumental effort, and I could already feel her pulling me back in, so I fled, and I chose to fall.”

There is silence for a minute.

“Will she be looking for you?” Dean asks after a while.

“Yes,” Cas says, certain. “But the angels will track my grace, and I have no idea where it is. They’ve probably found it by now.”

He looks devastated.

“We must assume that by now they know that I’ve fallen, and they’re looking for me,” he continues. “It’s harder for them to find me without my grace, but it won’t take them too long.” He hunches his shoulders forward. “I’m sorry to bring this threat down on you.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sam says, reaching out to touch Cas’s shoulder. Dean watches the movement. “This place is angel-proofed anyway, right?”

“No, it isn’t,” Cas says, looking up at him. “I expect the Men of Letters had no experience with angels. You need to ward the building. Do you know the sigils?”

“I think so.” Sam’s brows draw together.

“No you don’t. Give me a pen.”

Sam produces a pen and a piece of paper, and Cas draws a series of symbols, some familiar, some not. Dean moves closer to get a better look.

“Copy them onto the walls, inside, in the cardinal directions,” Cas says, handing the paper to Sam. “It should keep us hidden for a while.”

Sam nods and leaves the room. Dean perches on the edge of the table and looks down at Cas.

“So…what now?”

Cas glances at him, and then looks past him, up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes.

“I have to learn to be human.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize it took me so long to update this! The next chapter will hopefully be along a bit sooner, although I can't make any promises.   
> If the story seems a bit rambling in this installment, that's because it is. Stick with me - in the next chapter we'll be getting into the good stuff. There's going to be a hunt and everything.

Learning to be human, it turns out, is not exactly easy. It’s the little things that seem to bother Cas the most – temperature, waking up in the morning, the fact that he now has to use the bathroom several times a day. On the whole, though, he takes it better than Dean expects. Having been an angel for countless centuries, the abrupt transition to humanity can’t have been pleasant, but Cas remains mostly calm and composed. Which leaves a part of Dean wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop.

The first thing they do is buy Cas new clothes. Dean’s clothes fit Cas decently, but if being human is going to be a long-tem thing (and it appears that it will), Cas is going to need his own wardrobe, a wardrobe that consists of more than Jimmy Novak’s ill-fitting suit.

Taking a former angel to buy clothes isn’t exactly the strangest thing that Dean’s ever done. Still, it feels weird as fuck.

He’s used to life with Cas being a whirlwind of urgency and information. Now he’s standing in a store watching him browse through sale racks. This is Castiel, he tells himself, Castiel who was fire and ice and celestial fury, wrapped into a human form.

But this is _Cas_ , his friend. One of the few, few people whom Dean needs and trusts and admires. Who needs Dean right now.  Who happens to be human.

Dean’s phone dings, interrupting his thoughts. It’s a text from Sam:

_Don’t forget he needs a tattoo_

Dean stares down at the phone. Sam is right, Cas is vulnerable to demon possession now. Dean’s momentarily angry at himself that he hadn’t realized it. It’s been such a long time since he’s worried about possession for himself or Sam, that the thought that it might happen to Cas, who was a walking talking smiting machine, never crossed his mind.

Despite himself, Dean imagines it – Cas with black eyes, the demon laughing as it moves Cas’s limbs, coming towards him. The blood going cold in his veins and his inability to act in self-defense, because it’s Cas, he can’t hurt Cas.

Or worse, his instincts taking over and driving the knife into Cas’s heart, the demon flaring and dying and Cas slumping, dying too.

Dean shudders and pushes that thought far, far away, putting his phone back in his pocket.

Cas holds up a truly awful purple and orange striped shirt, tilting his head in consideration. Dean sighs.

 “That’s horrible,” he tells him.

Cas frowns at him but puts the shirt back.

Dean wonders briefly what the other angels would think if they could see Cas now. They’d probably turn their noses up and call him a disgrace, the douchebags. As if Castiel was anything to be ashamed of.

“So, Naomi, huh?” Dean asks, as Cas searches through a stack of soft long-sleeved shirts. Cas looks up at him but doesn’t respond.

 “The God Squad pulled you out of purgatory after all,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice calm. He’s angry, but not at Cas anymore – angry at the other angels, at this Naomi who kept Cas from him, who did such horrible things to him that he ripped out his essence to escape her.

“Yes,” Cas says, pulling out a dark blue shirt and holding it up. “And I truly don’t remember it. I wasn’t lying about that. Naomi must have altered my memories.”

Dean nods. He believes him this time. A deeply, deeply protective feeling blooms within him. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but he can’t help it.

“That matches your eyes,” Dean says, nodding towards the shirt Cas is holding. Cas looks at him quizzically. Dean coughs and looks away, wondering what on earth possessed him to say that. He can feel his ears turning red, and he walks away under the pretext of looking at some socks.

By the time they leave the store, Cas has two pairs of jeans, four shirts (one of which is plaid – Dean had weighed in heavily on that decision), a black sweater, and an assortment of boxers and socks. And his trenchcoat, of course, which he wears like it’s holding him together.

“You need a tattoo,” Dean says as they get into the car.

Cas nods. “Yes, I know,” he says. “I need to be warded. Even if the angels can’t get into the bunker, they can still find me.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Dean looks over at him. “I was talking about demon possession. I guess you need two.”

Cas looks a little taken aback at that. Apparently he hadn’t considered demon possession either. But he hums his assent and turns to look out the window.

They go to the only tattoo parlor in town, which is a small place, but it looks clean. The tattoo artist is a young guy named Gary with questionable facial hair. He greets Dean and Cas enthusiastically, probably delighted to have some business. There clearly aren’t many people getting tattooed in Lebanon.

Dean hangs back, looking around at the designs on the walls while Cas explains what he wants; he asks for the angel warding on his stomach, above his left hip. Dean sees the lines of Enochian he hands to Gary and wonders if it’s the same protection that Cas once carved into his ribs.

Gary is quiet through the prep work. Cas watches what he’s doing. Dean watches Cas.

“This is going to hurt,” Gary warns when he starts with the needle, and Cas hisses in pain at first, but that’s the extent of his crying out. He doesn’t whimper or make any indication that it hurts him the entire time. Dean stands nearby, watching the lines of ink appear on his skin, impressed at his tolerance. He’d thought that maybe becoming human would heighten physical sensations like pain, but Cas is stoic as always.

The anti-possession symbol goes on his back, between his shoulder blades. Dean winds up showing his own tattoo for reference. He can see Gary looking between them, taking in the request for a matching tattoo and drawing conclusions. Dean very nearly protests, but changes his mind before he opens his mouth.

“Cool design, man,” Gary says. “What does it mean?”

“It’s an ancient symbol of protection,” Cas tells him, as Gary traces it onto his skin. “It keeps the demons away.”

About halfway through the tattoo, Dean realizes that he’s staring at Cas’s bare back, that he’s been staring for a while. He coughs and looks away, somehow feelings chastised even though Cas can’t see him and Gary is focused on his work. His traitorous brain continues thinking about how Cas is more built than he expected, though, admiring the smooth lines of muscle in his back, until Dean forcibly chases away the thoughts.

When they’re done, Gary instructs Cas how to take care of the tattoos, and Dean tips him as Cas pulls his shirt on, wincing.

 “You two have a good day,” Gary calls as they leave. Cas smiles at him on the way out.

***

Cas doesn’t leave the bunker much on his own for the next few days. They don’t hunt – Dean doesn’t want to leave Cas behind, and doesn’t want to take him along. Cas is used to being able to kill things with a touch, which doesn’t bode well for his survival instincts. Dean promises himself that he’ll teach him at least the basics of human fighting before letting him out on a hunt.

Instead, Cas helps Sam continue with the process of cataloguing as they go through the old Men of Letters files. Dean’s restlessness is forgotten for the moment; it feels like a weight that he’d been carrying around for ages has finally been lifted off his chest.

“We need to get on with the trials, Dean,” Sam says a couple of days later.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “You’re getting better, right?”  

Sam sighs, exasperated. “I’m _fine,_ ” he says. “Besides, the trial brought on whatever this is. It’s not just going to go away by itself. I need to go through with this.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “I know. You will. We can’t do anything anyway until Kevin calls with more info.”

Sam sighs, forced to admit that Dean was right.

“Just focus on getting well,” Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder as he walks away. Sam rolls his eyes at him.

The best parts of Dean’s days are discovering the things that Cas likes about being human. He can tell that Cas doesn’t like his newfound humanity, but there are some perks. He likes coffee, for instance. One morning, he tells Dean stories about how humans used to chew the berries before they learned to brew it.

“The brewed coffee is much better,” he confides seriously. Dean makes a mental note to pick up the good coffee from the store and get rid of their shitty instant crap.

Cas likes showers, too, and Dean is delighted that he shares his passion for good water pressure. He also likes to sit on the roof of the bunker and stargaze, which Dean discovered one night after he nearly panicked because he couldn’t find Cas anywhere. 

The day after that, they’re sitting at a table in the library, a comfortable silence hanging between them. It’s peaceful, and Dean lets his eyes close, his hand resting on the table next to the laptop that he should be using.

“How long can I stay?” Cas asks suddenly.

Dean sits back in surprise, looking up to see Cas staring at him, a slight worried frown on his face.

“Forever,” he says without thinking, shocked that Cas would think he wasn’t welcome, that they would throw him out on the streets to fend for himself.

Cas is staring at him, eyes wide and hopeful. Dean hears what he sounded like. _Forever, Cas, stay with me forever._ He coughs, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, stay here as long as you want. Our home is your home, and all that.” He eyes him fiercely. “I mean it. Don’t even think about running off in the middle of the night.”

Cas reaches out and rubs his thumb across the back of Dean’s hand, and Dean is frozen, staring down at the point of contact.

“Thank you,” Cas says, heartbreakingly sincere, and Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

The end of the month approachs, bringing with it the end of the year. New Year’s Eve is quiet; Sam turns in around eleven, yawning hugely. Dean is worried about him; he doesn’t seem to be regaining strength. He’d asked Cas about it, but Cas hadn’t recognized Sam’s symptoms, and without his mojo, he couldn’t even figure out what was wrong, let alone heal it. Other than the fact that it was caused by the trial, they were completely in the dark.

Dean sighs and watches as the clock ticks closer to midnight. Ten minutes now until the beginning of a whole new year. In the background, the TV is on, the announcer babbling about how the ball is almost ready to drop. Smiling faces in Times Square, couples holding each other’s hands excitedly. Dean grimaces back at them, raising his bottle in a mock salute. New Year’s Eve, and he’s drinking by himself on the couch.

“Happy fucking New Year,” he mutters. _Hope it’s better than the last._

Which he really shouldn’t even bother with at this point. The Winchesters have the shittiest luck on the entire planet. There is absolutely nothing to make him think the next year will be any better. At least he’s smart enough to refrain from saying _“Well it can’t get any worse, can it?”_

Because it can. It always does.

Dean sighs again, looking down, suddenly feeling a deep disgust for the bottle in his hand. He stands, jerking to his feet so quickly that his head spins for a moment, a decision made before he realizes he made it. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He grabs a blanket and climbs the narrow stairs to the roof.

Dean pauses as he emerges onto the rooftop. The winter air is fresh but bitingly cold, enough to make him wish that he’d brought another layer, and he gasps slightly as he sees Cas. He’s sitting with his back to him, cross-legged on the ledge at the edge of the roof, so close to falling. Dean’s first instinct is to run and pull him back from the edge, but he holds himself back, not wanting to startle him. He remembers, suddenly, the conversation they’d had in a motel room in Oklahoma, when Cas told him he was afraid he might kill himself if he saw heaven again.

Cas was stuck in heaven for months. Dean feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He should have realized it before, should have made sure Cas was okay, shouldn’t have let him come up to the roof all the time with no supervision, the roof where it would be so easy to fall. It would even look like an accident.

Cas doesn’t look like he plans on jumping, though, and Dean lets himself breathe again. He studies Cas for a moment – the trench coat pulled around his shoulders, his head tipped back to look up at the sky.

He crosses the roof towards him, making sure to make enough noise. His footsteps are dull on the concrete, and Cas turns at the sound. His face doesn’t change when he sees Dean, but his eyes light up.

“Hello, Dean,” he says softly, and Dean can’t help but smile at him, wondering if the fluttery feeling in his chest is showing on his face.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, swallowing. “Will you come off the ledge?”

Somehow Cas seems to know exactly what Dean is thinking.

“I won’t fall,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. He risks a look over the edge and quickly turns away, shutting his eyes. “I might, though.” It’s somewhat of a bluff – Dean isn’t afraid of heights more than the average person, but he really wants to get Cas back onto the roof, and this is the quickest way he could think of.

Sure enough, Cas unfolds himself and climbs off the ledge, stretching. Dean sits down on the rooftop, putting his back against the ledge, and after a moment, Cas sits down beside him, their shoulders touching. Dean drapes the blanket around both of them.

“What were you looking at?” he says quietly, almost whispering.

Cas leans into him, almost imperceptibly, and Dean thinks that he can feel the smile on his face without looking at him.

“The constellations,” Cas answers. He lifts a hand and points up at the sky, tracing patterns with names Dean has never even heard of before.

“For as long as they could look up, humanity has watched the stars,” Cas says. “Even after they realized that comets aren’t portents of doom.”

“They aren’t?” Dean asks, teasingly. “What are they, then?”

Cas shoots him a look. “They’re masses of rock and ice hurtling through space,” he says. “Your scientists were right about that. To an extent.”

_What’s the extent?_ Dean wants to ask, because Cas explaining the universe is infinitely more interesting than any teacher he’s ever had. Maybe if Cas had been one of his teachers, he might have even finished high school. Of course, having Cas as a teacher would have made it extremely difficult to concentrate on any lessons.

“Do you see that star?” Cas asks, and Dean follows the line of his finger, trying to pick the star out of the sky. He can’t tell which star Cas is pointing at, but he nods anyway.

“That one was my favorite,” Cas says with a slight sigh. “We were supposed to love all things equally, but I always liked that one better than the others.”

“Rebel,” Dean says, huffing a laugh. He tries again to determine which star Cas meant. “What do you mean, favorite?”

“It was so peaceful. You could see everything from there. Heaven was home, but…”

He lets the words trail off, and it leaves a pause, a waiting, like the world is about to inhale.

Somewhere beneath them, the year flips over, but neither of them realize it. It doesn’t matter. The moment is immortal.

Nearby, someone shoots off a firework, and it explodes in the sky above them.

Dean turns to Cas, laughing, and Cas is looking back at him, his face bathed in the fading red and yellow glow. He’s beautiful, and Dean’s breath freezes in his chest as he stares at him.

This thing that he’s been desperately, steadfastly ignoring rushes to the surface, blooming into life, filling him until there’s nothing left to fill and it leaks from his fingers, spills from his mouth.

He could kiss him, right here and now. Kiss him because it’s the beginning of a new year, and that’s what you do, isn’t it?

He wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t.

“Happy New Years, Cas,” he says instead, turning his face back up towards the sky. Cas leans into his shoulder, and Dean closes his eyes because oh God, he is so, totally screwed.


End file.
